A Study in Maroon
by Blue Raja
Summary: (Young Sherlock Holmes fic) A new adventure begins as lost friends are remembered.
1. Part One: The Revelation

Many are under the impression that my first encounter with Sherlock Holmes was the only adventure that occurred during our youth. This is the notion I hope to remedy by writing this, the account of my second adventure with the blossoming detective. 

~ Dr. John H. Watson (Edited by Blue Raja)

**A Study in Maroon **

(Part One: The Revelation)__

For several days after the untimely death of Elizabeth Waxflatter, Holmes was a walking shell of his former self. He was often found in Waxflatter's loft; his jaw set and his eyes blurred with unshed tears. He had been allowed to stay at Brampton until he had recovered from the shock of his experiences. It was the least Brampton could do to thank him. Having adopted some of the observant nature of my friend, I noticed that he was usually seen with a blue ribbon wrapped around his hand. Upon further investigation I found this to be Elizabeth's hair ribbon, which now had its home deep within the confines of Holmes' pocket. With this realization came the revelation that Holmes was never going to be able to recover from his loss.

At night he would be neither asleep nor awake, but rather in an intermediate state where he would stare unblinkingly at the ceiling. He took to using a candle on his nightstand in place of his gas lamp, for the bright light given off by the lamp made his tired, oversensitive eyes sting and water. He was made to stay in the dormitory at night, so as to be with friends and companions that would support him through his time of mourning. This approach did not work, for neither Holmes nor our classmates endeavoured to make contact. In the dormitory, the other boys left Holmes alone, in the way that schoolboys will when they are afraid of catching a contagious virus.

My strange and remarkable friend was falling into a despair which I knew would eventually kill him if left to run its course. I approached Holmes on one of his better nights, sitting on his bed with his violin in his lap and the ribbon weaving seamlessly through his fingers. The only light came flickering from his single candle. The light flashed across his face, gaunt with sorrow and unhealthily pale. As I sat down next to him, the ribbon ceased its weaving and his eyes flashed towards me to affirm that I was, indeed, myself. "Hello, Watson." He greeted me slowly, his voice dry and humourless. The other boys were asleep, and would stay that way.

I smiled faintly and replied in the low tone of voice reserved to speak to those whom might snap under pressure at any given moment. "Hello, Holmes." And awkward pause filled the space between us. "How… how are you holding up?"

Holmes closed his eyes and sighed a sigh so deep in resignation that it seemed to make all of his tensed muscles turn to liquid for a swift moment. "My dear Watson, I hope you'll never know."

I made a comforting noise in the back of my throat, a talent that I am proud to say works wonders and is quite useful in my current occupation.

"I know exactly how my father felt, now." He continued under his breath. After a bit of prompting and encouragement, he told me the story of how he happened to come to Brampton, which is a story so complete in itself that it can only be told in the exact words in which it was told to me.

"It was by accident that I opened my father's post that day. It was a letter addressed to 'Holmes', and it looked so much like a letter I had been waiting for that I took it to be my own and opened it before I realized my error. Inside the envelope was a letter so personal in nature that I instantly knew that I had made a terrible mistake. 

"It was to my father from a woman named Maria, and contained two pages worth of all the evidence needed to rouse the suspicion of an affair between the two. I was startled at first, then angry. I was determined to put a stop to the affair, one way or another. I started by intercepting more letters from the woman. The letters were easily sequestered, for she used a heavy stationary only found in a paper shop in Surrey, and both the envelope and the letter carried the watermark of the maker. She also never printed her return address on the envelope, for fear that my mother would become suspicious of the letters written to my father from a mysterious woman. I would steam these letters open, read them, then seal then with a bit of diluted paste. This continued for several weeks, during which my mother was mercifully unaware of my father's discrepancy with his marriage vows.

"I discovered within one of the letters a plot between the two to converge upon the streets of London and journey to our home while my mother was away on a visit. To make the best of this opportunity, I surreptitiously swallowed a nonlethal dose of arsenic during chemistry, and became violently ill during mathematics. I was sent home for the day, where, after having purged myself of the poison, I sat in my bed with a cup of herbal tea and my mathematics textbook, waiting for my father to arrive with his mistress. 

"After a protracted period of waiting, I heard the front door being unlocked and opened. There was a moment's silence, after which my father's voice called into the house, "Violet? Darling, are you home?" I held my tongue and was rewarded with voices in the hall. Apparently their plot had been a success, for there they were together, seemingly alone.

"I think I may have misjudged the amount of arsenic I consumed, for when I crept into the hall and down the stair to catch them, my vision blurred and I fell down the last three steps of the staircase, landing at the feet of my father's damsel-in-hiding." (At this point in his account, Holmes realized that he had been clenching his hands into fists so tightly that his fingernails drew blood from his palms. I was ready to offer a bandage, but he didn't seem at all surprised and instead of interrupting his tale, he rubbed his hands together, smearing the blood until they were red and horrible in the candlelight.)

"They stood there like a pair of bloody mannequins, staring at me. She wasn't nearly as beautiful as my mother, and when she spoke her voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard and void of intelligence. 'Oh dear.' She said." (Holmes's voice changed suddenly into the lady's voice. He fluttered his eyelashes with surprise and brought his bloodied hands to his mouth in a gruesome pantomime.) "My father was not at all amused, but before he could grab me I had gained my feet and was running for the door. I burst out onto the busy sidewalk outside, nearly got myself killed by two carriages while sprinting across the street, and smacked right into my mother, of all things. The poison caught up to me and I fell against her breast. Surprised, confused and concerned, she held me there, and asked in a tremulous voice what I was doing in my nightclothes in the middle of the street instead of at school. Before I could stop myself, the story of my father's betrayal had spilled past my lips and into her ears. She paled considerably and with a strength I didn't know she possessed, dragged me back across the street and into our home, where she came face to face with my father and his lover.

"Maria didn't beat around the bush, but left hastily. My father was left to explain things, which he started to do. He claimed she was a client and that he had only brought her home with the intent of entertaining her with a few drinks, but my mother knew better. They sent me to my room, then battled it out in shouts and screams. The screams later subsided to soft crying. My father's heavy footsteps on the stairs alerted me to his approach. I feigned sleep and was saved my punishment for the night.

"My actions were not taken lightly, for my mother had suspected my father but had ignored the evidence to lead a happier life. My revealing of the affair caused her great pain. She didn't eat, sleep or talk to us for days on end. Then one day I came home and found she had hung herself from her bed canopy." (I have said that I have only seen Holmes cry twice, and that stays true, for though it was obvious that it was painful to recall the event, his eyes merely quivered with anger. I had learned through experience that Holmes was a man of emotion and action, and was more than a bit concerned that he would express his rage in some form. There was a creak from across the dormitory as one of the sleeping boys adjusted himself. Holmes only looked at his bloodied hands and continued.)

"My father blamed me. He did everything possible to make my life miserable, as though he couldn't tell that I was already as miserable as one could be. He removed my laboratory from my room and smashed it on the curb. He burned my books. When he couldn't hurt me any more, he left me alone, often for days. One day he didn't return. I was eventually put into the care of my older brother, Mycroft, who sent me here to be with individuals of my own age. So here I am." Holmes looked at me, eyebrows furrowed so deeply that they almost touched. His penetratingly grey eyes were dark in the meagerly lit room, and seemed to stare directly through my own eyes and into my soul. It was unnerving, to say the least. One of the other boys, probably Dudley, snored loudly, breaking the spell between us. "I'm… I want to bring Elizabeth back, Watson. I know I can't. I feel empty without her, though. I wonder if it wouldn't be worth it to just join her right now."

This attitude wouldn't do. I knew I had to convince Holmes that he was loved and needed in the world he was in. "Don't say that, Holmes. You love Elizabeth and she loves you. She would never want you to cut your life short for her sake." I continued the sentiment in my mind, for in his state I didn't know what Holmes would make of my conclusion. "In heaven, time is inconsequential. Her wait will be as fleeting as her pain." Holmes sighed, his shoulders slumped with weariness. I could only hope that he was ready to continue with his life. 

"I suppose you're right, Watson." I was relieved. He was too great of a mind to send to the posthumous dimension at so early an age. I convinced him to wash the blood off his hands, let me bandage them, and go to sleep. In a few moments he had fallen into an exhausted slumber. 

I can't say the same for myself. I was disturbed by Holmes' tale, and was awake wondering about his fate into the wee hours of the morning.

In the days that followed, Holmes' mood started lifting. I was glad for his recovery but concerned about his residency at Brampton, which was to be terminated upon his full recovery from our adventure. Still, seeing the slightest hint of a smile playing upon his lips made my chest flutter with caged happiness. Soon he was almost himself again, witty and energetic. I could see in his manner, however, that there was a void within him that no one could ever fill. Though he laughed, he wasn't happy. His manner, once that of an innocent young man with the world before him, had become that of a wizened old General whom had seen too much pain and suffering wrought by the evil of men's hearts.

Once the school had determined that Holmes was in a stable enough condition to leave, they provided him with a hansom. As if he had read their thoughts, his bags were waiting on the front steps of the school when the carriage arrived. We had a few parting words, which to me felt forced and superficial. I never expected to see him again, and I have no doubts that he thought the same. He was wearing Rathe's cape and Waxflatter's cap. With the addition of my pipe, he looked utterly ridiculous, yet charming and mysterious. As he was driven away, my heart grew heavy with the realization that the coming days would be unbearably dreary without him.

(End of Part One)


	2. Part Two: Th Return

(Part Two: The Return)

~1~

It had been a little over a week since Holmes' departure and I missed him terribly. The empty bed next to mine was a lonely testament to his commanding presence. School had become intolerable. 

Having been so enthralled with my companion, I had forgotten to make other acquaintances, and was soon the target of scorn and reproach. My only friends had left me to fend for myself, but I was determined to ignore the fact. In my free time, I wrote letters to both Holmes and Elizabeth. I never sent them, but kept them under my mattress. The letters became an outlet for my emotions, and even having my thoughts on a scrap of paper addressed to Holmes made me feel a special bond with him.

It was while writing one of these letters that I became the sole witness of Holmes' return to Brampton.

I was crouched over my letter, gaslight carefully shuttered to prevent the awakening of one of the other boys, when I heard a light tapping on the window over my bed. I took this to be of no consequence, for the wind had been building up for a veritable attack and the noise was so light that it had to have been snowflakes pounding against the glass. I ignored the noise at my window in favour of listening for the dean's footsteps echoing down the hall towards the dormitory. I had been caught writing past curfew before, and had no intention of letting it happen a second time.

Several minutes later, the tapping resumed, with a new sense of urgency. I finally put down my pen and looked up at the window. There was nothing there. When the tapping continued a minute later, I was determined to catch it in the act. I was being irrational—a fact that I notice only in hindsight—and somehow imagined the sounds to be coming from some spectre that had grown tired of the blustery winter night and wanted to come in for a nightcap and a bit of lighthearted banter. With my nose almost touching the glass, I patted the tips of my fingers on the pane, hoping to achieve the same soft noise. In a fit of whimsy I tapped the first five beats of the familiar "Shave and a haircut" bit. I was startled into a muffled cry when a white, long-fingered hand rose out of the darkness to supply my tune with the last two notes. The hand took hold of the window ledge and was joined by another hand, then the pale countenance of my former companion.

"Holmes!" I wanted to laugh with joy but stifled myself with the crook of my elbow. I swiftly opened the window to allow Holmes access to the dormitory. Within seconds of my opening the window, he leapt deftly into the room and landed, silent and stealthy as a cat, on the floor. A flurry of snow followed him and settled upon his shoulders. He flashed me a smile as he closed the window behind himself. With the snow-flecked cloak and deerstalker he had the appearance of skeletal royalty in a snow globe. His bony cheeks had quickly become rosy in the warmth of the dormitory. A smudge of ash across his hawk-like nose made him look not unlike a street urchin. His eyes were lively with excitement.

"So we meet again, eh Watson?" he whispered, seizing my hand in a friendly shake.

"Wha… what are you doing here?" I felt ridiculous and awkward in my robe and slippers. The last drifting snowflake landed on the lens of my glasses and quickly melted. I felt as if I were in a dream, for there was no worldly explanation for Holmes' spectacular return.

"I believe you opened the window and let me in." he replied quietly and with wide eyes.

"Very funny, Holmes." I muttered under my breath. 

(I pause here to note that the remainder of our exchange that night was spoken in hushed tones, and that I will not attempt to indicate how low our voices were for fear of losing the point of our conversation.)

"I meant what are you doing in London? Aren't you supposed to be with your bro— what in the blazes are you doing?" Holmes had ignored me completely and was rummaging deftly through my trunk in search of something.

"Dreadfully sorry, old chap." He looked up at me with genuine remorse before continuing in his search, "It's just that it's been quite a while since I have had a good meal, and if you're habits haven't changed in my absence, I daresay you should have a fair stash of— AHA!" He held up a pastry triumphantly and I noticed with notable surprise that it was one I had failed to find the night before. I had given up my search with the thought that some other student had pilfered it. "You wouldn't mind, would you?" Stunned, I merely nodded and watched in silent amazement as he ate the pastry with delicate caution, enjoying the slightly stale flavour of the cream centre.

When he had finished the pastry and allowed me to regain my composure, I continued my inquisition.

"Why aren't you at you're brother's?"

"It's not safe there." He replied with all seriousness while warming his hands upon the glass of my gaslight.

"Well why the deuce not?"

"It just isn't." He gave me a look that told me that that was all I needed to know for the time being.

"How did you get back?" I asked, envisioning his spindly silhouette against a barren landscape, trudging endlessly through mountains of fresh snow.

"I managed to cop a ride on a coal delivery cart." That explained the smudge on his nose, which I finally pointed out. "It stopped just short of the city," he continued, rubbing at the smudge with his eyes crossed, "so I walked the last few kilometers." That made sense as well. "Is it gone?"

"A little more to the right."

"Here?"

"Yes. And just where are you planning to stay? Certainly not in here?" I motioned around the room, and as if on a cue, the weary voice of Dudley called groggily across the room, "Who has a light on?" we held our breath. "Turn off the bloody light and go to sleep you buggered…" he trailed off and concluded his message with a nasally snore.

Holmes peered over at his rival, amusement and disgust dancing a swift ballet across his face. "So, the plague lingers." He turned to me, eyes filled with conflict. "I suppose he's been as much of a terror as usual?" I couldn't help but grin and nod. Dudley had become an arrogant prig since the removal of his only competitor, but now slept innocent as a baby and vulnerable as a turtle without its shell under the hard glare of his adversary. Holmes smiled sardonically and rubbed his hands together. "I will deal with him in due time. The issue at hand is where I am to take up residence. I have had copious time to think this through, and though it may be a bit nippy at first, I presume Waxflatter's loft is still vacant? Yes? It's decided then. I suppose Miss Miriam won't miss a few items?" Holmes stripped his former bed of coverlet and pillow. Miss Miriam was the school's newest chambermaid, though how Holmes knew her name stayed a mystery to me. Rolling the pillow in the comforter and tucking the resulting bundle under his arm, Holmes made as if to leave through the window.

We froze suddenly, both having heard the approaching shuffle-steps of the dean. "Hide!" I hissed through clenched teeth. When the tall, broad figure of the dean filled the doorway, the gaslight had been extinguished and the coverlet and pillow replaced. I was snuggled in my bed, my back turned to the door. Holmes peered up at me from under his bed, eyes wide. He made circles with his thumbs and forefingers and placed them over his eyes with a frantic wheeze from the back of his throat.

"What?" I mouthed at him, confused and anxious. He glared at me emphatically through his circles. Suddenly getting the idea, I suppressed a gasp and realized I was still wearing my glasses. With the smallest motion possible I slipped them off the tip of my nose and under my pillow.

The dean's footsteps shuffled between the parallel ranks of sleeping schoolboys, and I could picture his balding head swinging from side to side in relentless scrutiny of his army. His steps stopped at the foot of my bed. Holmes, hidden deep in the shadows where only I could see him, held his breath. The dean suppressed a yawn, sighed deeply, and turned back towards the door.

His footsteps had just echoed down the hall when Holmes rolled out from his hiding spot. "That was close. I'd better be off before he returns." He gathered up his pillow and blanket and crouched next to me. "I'll be conforming my lifestyle to a routine of secrecy, Watson. Don't try to call on me during the day, I'll be sleeping and it would rouse suspicions. I'll need you to bring me nourishment for a few nights until I find a way into the school kitchen."

"How am I supposed to do that?" I scoffed. "I'm not climbing on any roofs and getting my fool neck broken."

"For God's sake, I would never ask you to do something like that. You'd draw attention. No, look. I'll rig up a pulley with a basket. Just put the food in there and I'll deal with the rest." He was halfway out the window when he paused. "Expect me to drop in on you tomorrow night." Before I could ask what for, he was gone.

~2~

As I wandered through the courtyard between classes the following day, my eyes couldn't help but climb upwards to the loft. Waxflatter's wooden ramp was still positioned precariously over the window, ready as ever to launch some unusual flying contraption into the air and into the clutches of gravity. I knew that Holmes was up in the loft, making it his own; perhaps resting between bursts of energy to examine Waxflatter's aborted schemes and schematics, or thinking about Elizabeth with the curious blue ribbon wrapped around his fingers. I couldn't stand and stare at the window all day, however, for that would draw the attention Holmes was so adamantly endeavouring to avoid. However, it was a struggle to keep myself from telling of Holmes' return. At supper I wanted nothing more than to stand upon my chair and proclaim to the entire world that he had returned to me against all odds, and that surely no one could say the same would occur if they and their friends were torn apart as we had been. I drowned the irrational urge in the hustle and bustle of the dining hall, though, and set about my task of pilfering food for my hidden friend. This was a chore I was used to, being an expert on midnight snacks and the concealment of such fare. 

As I had no friends, I was quite alone in my dining and found it quite easy to slip food beneath my table and into my large coat pockets. I strove to make my actions unknown, and in so doing found myself looking out the window into the growing darkness outside. I gazed longingly at the loft window, and imagined Holmes in the looming shadows, alone and cold, perhaps haunted by the ghosts of his past. These hopelessly romantic thoughts settled in my mind, and I could only wish, in silent desperation, that Holmes would keep his appointment for that night, for if he didn't, I would be forced to go and join him. As I stared at the window, there was the sputtering warm flash of what could only be a match, then the steady glow of a lamp. The light dimmed and disappeared into the inky depths as quickly as it had appeared. I glanced frantically about the dining hall in fear that I had not been the sole witness to this event. The other students were so intent upon their conversations that my growing unease dissipated into a mild sense of relief. 

I quickly finished my hoard of food and headed off to my bed. The sheer amount of food that I had taken that night resulted in such a large bundle that I was forced to wrap my entire coat around it. I placed the coat over my arm in what I hoped was a careless manner and strode casually into our sleeping quarters.

"Hey John!" One of Dudley's lackeys called contemptuously. "Why don't you have your coat on? It's bloody freezing!"

"Oh… I'm quite comfortable, really." I opened the chest at the footboard of my bed and hastily placed the food-filled coat on top of the myriad clothes stashed there. I closed the chest and heard the satisfying click of a job well done. Then the lackey slipped into my sight, a discernible smirk creeping along the lower half of his face.

"You're not cold, then?" He asked, malice in his voice.

"N-no." I stammered.

"In that case, I don't suppose you'll need your quilt tonight, am I correct?" He shook open the quilt that had been lying, neatly folded, at the foot of my bed, and swung it around his shoulders like a cape. "Aw, yays. Scoff, scoff. Ate ais sew veray had baing the qwain of Aingland" He drawled in passable cockney. He strutted around the room amidst bursts of laughter and encouragement. Dudley applauded lightly at his friend's court jester actions. I'm sorry to say that although he was making a fool of our beloved queen, I was glad he wasn't torturing me and didn't attempt to put a stop to his gallivanting. I knew there was nothing I could do to get my quilt back, so I endeavoured to ignore Dudley and his troupe completely. They would have none of it, for I was barely a page into my novel when the jester inserted himself beetween the pages. "I dahsay, awl chap, what ah yew raidaing?" he asked, still using the ridiculous accent. The book was snatched from my hands and held up for public scrutiny. "Lewk! Awl' Johnnay hyah is raidaing the 'complate compendiam awf Blawday blokayness'!" 

It was going to be a long night.

~3~

It took a while, but soon all the other boys were asleep. I had no doubt in my mind that Holmes had been crouching outside the window waiting for that exact moment, for when the last boy started to snore, there was a tap upon my window. I instantly opened it and allowed Holmes to enter. He dropped into the room with all the grace of the night before. His eyes were sparkling with excitement as he closed the window and grinned at me. 

"Well done, Watson, old chap."

"It's a pleasure to see you again." And it truly was. He had cleaned himself up since the day before, and had apparently brought a change of clothes with him from home. He was wearing a brown vest over a white shirt. His trousers were the slightest bit short on him, and his ankles showed above his snow-covered shoes. He must have done quite a bit of exercise during the day, for he seemed quite comfortable in the cold with only this light wardrobe.

"Right then," he whispered as I went to fetch the food from my chest, "to business. As you know, I've taken up residence in Waxflatter's tower." Holmes has always teased my romantic view of things, but on this occasion he had was the romantic one. The "tower" was more of an attic than anything. Even calling it a loft was optimistic. Besides, there was no need for him to recap the previous night's events, for they stood out in my mind as clearly as he stood before me. 

He accepted the food and paused briefly to taste the bread. "Very good. You have fine tastes, Watson. As I was saying, I was hoping to show you a way up to the tower."

I was delighted. Holmes had taken special precautions to stay accessible to me. I was not quite so delighted when he made me put on my coat and climb out of my window, however. Not being as graceful as my companion, I fell from the ledge and landed on the snow below with an audible grunt. Holmes landed next to me, and after having closed the window, helped me to regain my feet.

"Holmes!" I cried upon remembering that the window only opened from the inside, "How the devil am I supposed to get back in?"

"No problem, old boy. I have tied a ribbon around the handle. When you pull upon this loose end, it should release the clasp and allow you to go in." I peered at the device and was more than a bit startled to see that the ribbon he had used was the blue one that had once held Elizabeth's flowing blonde hair out of her face.

We made our ways to the "tower" and Holmes showed me the trellis he had found just a few windows over. "If you climb up here and walk across the roof, you shall eventually reach the trapdoor into my quarters."

I barely remember what happened next, only that one moment I was climbing, then being seized by an extreme attack of vertigo. I found myself lying upon the roof, Holmes leaning over me with concern upon his features.

"Dear lord, Watson, are you alright?" he asked. His breath was warm upon my cold cheeks. 

I pushed myself up onto my elbows and put on a brave face. "I'm fine. Let's go."

Holmes looked unsure but led me across the roof to the trapdoor. Once we were both safely inside, he spread his arms and smiled broadly. "Tah dah!"

Holmes had apparently moved the furniture around, for there was more room in the attic than there had been previously. Waxflatter's plans and schematics were rolled into tubes and protruded from an umbrella stand. The tables had been pushed up against the wall, leaving a large empty space in the middle of the room. In the middle of the cleared area was a high-backed leather lounge chair, the likes of which I had never seen amongst the clutter of Waxflatter's inventing space. The bookshelves had been pushed in front of the door, leaving the window and trapdoor as the only entrances to Holmes' lair. He went to the window and closed the thick drapes.

"It's amazing." I confessed, standing in the middle of the room and spinning about to take it all in. "The place is actually organized for once." Holmes tossed me a dirty look over his shoulder and I refrained from making further comments about his former role model's tidiness. A lamp was lit and placed on the floor. The stuttering yellow light cast shivering shadows on the walls. 

"I can only imagine," Holmes mused to himself, "what they would think if they saw a light in this window."

"I could always tell them this place is haunted." I offered. Holmes whirled on me with a look on his face I cannot describe, for I have yet to see it since.

"You will do nothing of the sort!" he hissed. "Not only is it absurd and completely impossible, it will draw them here." He paced about, his brows knitting over his disturbingly grey eyes and his chin resting upon his chest. "They're curious, yes… they'd want to see. They'd challenge each other to come here. The administration would get word of the rumours. No, Watson, no, it is the worst thing we could do." He stopped and cocked his head to the side as if listening for something. "Besides," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, "one can hardly simulate a haunting without drawing the spirits of the dead."

It was at that moment that I began to question the sanity of my companion. At first I thought he had returned for my sake, then I imagined that he had escaped from some unspeakable horror and had come to me for help. Now I was unsure, for it seemed that Holmes had returned to dwell in the environment that had once harboured the life of his only love. 

He turned to me, his expression melting into a weak smile. "So very sorry, Watson. I seem to have lost myself. What I meant to say is that would be a cruel tale to tell. I am not the only one that loved Elizabeth, and doubtlessly some heartbroken boy will hurt himself trying to catch a glimpse of her aura. No, Watson, I will simply practice caution." His eyes started to take on the glazed look I came to acquaint with his daydreaming, but snapped back into clarity as he noticed my coat pockets, still bulging with food. "Shall we eat, then?"

(End of Part Two)


End file.
